In the Eyes of the Ghost
by Lamia
Summary: More angst that what you can shake your angst stick at. Now edited.


Note: By now you should know what belongs to me and what belongs to Gaiman so there's no need in restating that. This takes place in that period mentioned by Lucien in Brief Lives, which is sometime in the hundred years The Dreaming was razed by a drought, a bit after the nwhole Nada affair happened. Okay wake up, I'm done. 

He walks through his realm under a searing sun, never raising His head to contemplate the devastation it has taken upon His land. Never looking at the fields that used to bask in glory of emerald summer, of which even the ashes were ravished by the sudden drought; leaving only wasteland, ashen and shriveled like ancient skin, with cracks like gaunt veins stretching all throughout. 

He continues walking, His robes of dancing fires, fluttering slightly with each step, his head crowned of night, bowed as in silent prayer. His walking gives him an air of an apparition, or a mourner of a faded image from a time long dead, rather than the creator He is. But He continues walking, each step taking Him further away from the heart of His land, until the blistered sky is weaved with threads of jet and purple night, which embroil into the sea. 

He stops and stares into the sea. His eyes, black pools like the sea, become lost among the ebony. Of His entire realm, He is most pleased with the Shores of Night. Because it was the only area that has suffered no change as centuries went by, for it still reflects the period where The Dreaming was nothing but black and desolate. Because in a way, it resembles its creator, a void of lingering night splattered with many stars, some that twinkled dimly and others that glow like hell's fire, all of which are eternal. 

_He could have told her he still loved her._

He reflects He could have told her that He would continue to love her. That He had always, and will always love her. 

_If He loved her so, then why did He damn her soul into the fallen one's world, to live in eternal suffering._

Because she wanted it that way, He told Himself. He had offered a gift no would ever be honoured of receiving. A rare gift, incomprehensible to many, even Himself. 

The gift of His love. 

He could have given her gifts beyond the bounds of imagination. He could have created worlds as offerings, and he did not ask for much in return. Just her love, for her to be His queen, to rule together for infinity. But she denied it. He only did what she requested. 

(His pride had been hurt). He did it because He loved her. 

Nada had not been the first one to suffer such consequences. 

There had been Eshe, His first and only queen, who had ruled among the night by His side, when humans worshipped voiceless gods with wordless prayers. Who was benevolent, like He could never be, who filled The Dreaming with life when it was only a patch of night. His love for her engulfed him with maddening passion (He suspects he created to satisfy His needs, to alleviate His loneliness). 

She had started as a dream, the image of perfection demanded by dreamers. Created to His own image, created by the very sand in which he now stands on. He remembers what He felt when He stared at the finished dream for the first time. He realized such simplistic beings could not appreciate such an adeptly crafted image. Nor did they deserve her.He kept her for Himself. 

Numerous epochs went by before He realized He did not love her anymore. He did not need her. He got rid of her, tossed her away like she was not of importance, like the many relics He collects. And she was never heard from again. 

He remembers there was a time, before His younger siblings existed, when He used to tell Himself companionship was unnecessary. His kind had no need for such foolishness. 

But yet. 

There was a feeling inside of Him. Ancient as He was, hidden among the matted secrecy He was well known for. A feeling that assured him interminable loneliness. That assured ridding of it would be elusive, like fingers trying to grasp grains of sand 

He disregarded such feelings for He was an Endless. Once more he told Himself He did not need anyone. But his mind has already been stained with them, the future loves that would never be consummated that would never leave his thoughts. But the feeling could not be ignored for it was like an invisible beast, clawing sharp as nails, inside of him, corroding him slowly. 

He drops his gaze from the night and walks further into his land, where the ghosts and shadows of old memories and forgotten dreams scurry.


End file.
